


Promise Me You'll Try

by Aoichou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Coda, Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Post-Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Vulnerable Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoichou/pseuds/Aoichou
Summary: Dean can't believe that Cas did something as stupid as killing a Reaper for him. Cas can't understand why Dean can't believe it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is the first fic I have written in years. Like, many many many years. It's also my first Destiel fic ever. It's kind of shocking that I was inspired to take multiple hours out of my Sunday to get back into writing when it's been so long. I guess that tells you how hard I've fallen for this ship? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! Comments are greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> PS: It's not beta-ed or anything, but I did my best to proofread it, so hopefully there's nothing too egregious left for you to stumble over.

Furious.

That’s the best, the _only_ way to describe Dean Winchester in this moment. He is all balled fists, clenched teeth, tense muscles, and painfully piercing eyes, stalking up and down the length of the room with such aimless yet intent purpose that it is a wonder he hasn’t already worn the beginnings of a new bunker into the floor. He paces up the room, stops for a split second, then wheels around to stare Castiel dead in the eyes. He marches toward him once again.   
  
“What were you _thinking_?!”

Cas, for his part, stands his ground and meets Dean’s gaze with eyes full of defiance.

“The only way to save you was to kill her.”

The steady, self-assured nature of the comment only irritates Dean, stokes the fires burning in his gut. _How can he be so calm about this?_ Dean wonders. He allows himself to fan the flames.

“ _I_ made that deal. _I_ agreed to it so that I could get Sammy out alive. I swore it with _my blood!_ ” Dean takes a breath, bites his lip. Then, softer, but still seething dangerously-- “I was ready to die. I had made my peace.”

“Well, I hadn’t.”

“That’s not your call to make!”

“I made it anyway.”

Cas’s gaze is hard, but behind it Dean can swear he sees a flicker of guilt. It gives him pause for all of a half-second, but the anger is still tossing and turning in his stomach, a snake curling in on itself, waiting to strike. He hisses slightly on the exhale.

“What gives you the right to make that choice?”

Castiel, unexpectedly, does not at first respond. Instead, he cocks his head to the side in that terribly endearing way and holds Dean’s eyes. _A prison of blue glass,_ Dean thinks absently. Gently, Cas shakes his head and reaches for Dean.

The softness of his touch, that feather-light warmth startles Dean and he jumps slightly, though he does not pull away. Cas's hand rests on his bicep, aligned with the long-faded print he left in a time that seems eons ago.

“Because I have watched you die too many times. And if you die now, I don’t have the power to raise you. So I won't let it happen." His voice tightens. "Not again.”

Dean feels the familiar tightness in his chest, but shoves it back, allowing his anger to shield him from the wave of unbidden, long-hidden emotions suddenly threatening to pull him under.

“Didn't you hear Billie? There are consequences to breaking a blood oath, Cas!  _Cosmic-level consequences_. Do you not care about any of that? What if we just unleashed some kind of curse?”

“Then we deal with it,” Cas responds evenly.

“What if we’ve started another Apocalypse? If people die? _Innocent_ people?”

“Then they will die and you will save many more. My choice has been made."

“But…”

He trails off. 

There’s a specific fear on the tip of Dean’s tongue and he can’t bring himself to say it, because if he says it, then it manifests in the realm of possibility--a fear that is the real reason for his anger with Cas. He feels it acutely, a terrible dread born the moment that Cas drove the shining silver angel blade into Billie’s chest and the light faded from her eyes. Like a shadow, like a parasite, it followed him all the way from that bridge to the bunker, through the slapdash dinner they had all scarfed down, into the kitchen as Dean cleaned the dishes, to the library where he had read to try and forget it, and finally down the hall and into his bedroom, long after Mary and Sam had turned in. Cas had followed him the whole time, too. He never spoke, only stared at the floor or the wall. He was just there. Ever-present. Existing.

It had driven Dean so crazy that he had finally pulled Cas into his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

And somehow that has brought them to this moment. With the fear still gnawing at him, drying his mouth to sandpaper, snaking up the back of his spine and making his head swim.

Cas’s eyes are fixed on the hand still on Dean’s arm. He is almost unreadable. Quiet, pensive. And...weary. Worn to the bone.  
  
When he finally allows himself to get a good look at Cas’s face, Dean's anger immediately begins to fade, replaced by steadily growing shock. He notes, for the first time since they escaped, the deep purples under Cas's eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks, the too-pale skin. He is struck with the sudden realization that for the last six weeks, Cas has been suffering too. He clearly hasn’t been eating or sleeping, or whatever else angels do to recuperate. And sure, he's had Mary for company, but by all accounts, Mary has been out cleaning up her own hunts much of the time. Cas would have been just as alone as he and Sam had been. Dean imagines Cas sitting helplessly at the map table, staring at a phone that won't ring. In the library, searching for a tracking spell that doesn't exist. In the kitchen, drinking cold coffee and subsisting on thin strands of fading hope.  
  
He has suffered so much already. And then Dean and Sam finally come back home to him, and all Dean can do is yell at him for having saved his life.  
  
And _because_ Cas saved his life, now…

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Cas raises his eyes, the fog of his thoughts rolling away as he looks at Dean, brow creased slightly in confusion.

“Dean?”

Dean takes a breath, steels himself. Cas deserves this. Deserves to understand.

“What if this thing, this broken oath… _my_ broken oath…” A pause. A breath. “Cas, what if it kills _you_?”

Cas looks startled. Dean breaks away from his gaze and stares at the floor, a hot sting welling behind his eyes. A drop escapes down his cheek. He brushes it away as quickly as he can.  
  
And then...then the words come spilling out, against his better judgement, against his will, against everything.

“Cas, you say you’ve watched _me_ die too many times? Well what about _you,_ you stupid son-of-a-bitch? You’ve been killed in front of me so many times, Cas. And it never,  _never_ stops hurting. Every time you die, I don’t know if Chuck will save you, raise you from the dead, piece you back together, bring you back to me. I don’t know if he’ll forget, or run out of angel-making juice, or just friggin' decide that he’s done. And then you’ll be dead, Cas. Really dead. Because I dragged you down to Earth. I asked you to turn against your family. I asked you for help over and over and over again. I pulled you into our messy, awful lives. And all for what? Because I was lonely and selfish? And if you die now, and you don't come back? How the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

Dean collapses into a sitting position on the side of the bed, head in his hands. He can feel Castiel’s eyes boring into him, but he can’t bear to look up. More tears wet his hands; he has stopped trying to force them back. Instead he sits and allows the shame to wrap itself around him in a suffocating blanket of self-loathing. Maybe, if he's lucky, a sinkhole will open up and swallow him alive.

And then the bed is sinking slightly to his right and a warm shoulder presses into his. Calloused hands are pulling his own away from his eyes, and suddenly Dean finds himself incredibly close to Cas's face. He wears a serious, sincere expression, not unlike the one he wore earlier this evening when he had saved Dean and his family (again). Dean is struck, not for the first time, by just how beautiful Castiel is. He drops his gaze and kills the thought as quickly as he can. _Best friend, best **friend**_ **…** _this really isn't the time, Winchester..._  
  
When he looks up again, Cas is still staring at him with a look of such tenderness that Dean's chest aches.

“You really think you dragged me to Earth?”

Dean’s reddened eyes dart over Castiel’s face, his eyes, his mouth, trying to ascertain Cas’s meaning. He comes up short. Cas sighs deeply.  
  
“Dean, I chose this. I made my choice that day I first pulled you from Hell. Your soul, it cried out to me." He pauses, bites his lower lip, searches for words. "It was...glorious, Dean. Shining in colors there are no names for, piercing all the darkness of Hell, illuminating my path to you. I...I cannot describe the feeling...the warmth as I cradled it in my hands..."  
  
In this moment Castiel's eyes glaze over and he is lost in the world of the memory.   
  
"Your soul was, and remains, the most perfect thing I have ever seen. From the moment I saw its light, more pure and true than any soul I have seen in my thousands of years of existence--I have known since that moment that I would spend the rest of my life watching over it, protecting it. Protecting  _you._ Because this world should never have to lose such a beautiful soul again.” He squeezes Dean’s hands, which he has been holding firmly. Dean's consciousness barely registers the touch, enraptured as he is by Cas’s words, by the fervor with which he speaks them.

“Don’t you see, Dean? In leaving Heaven, in saving you, I have found my purpose, a mission greater than any Heaven could have devised for me. And if I die in the line of that mission, then I will die happy, knowing that you will draw even one single breath more. My life is bound to yours, and I would not change that for anything--not for my wings, not for my brothers. No, not even for my Father himself.”

Dean realizes that Cas is trembling slightly with the intensity of his words. His breath is shaky and his eyes scan Dean’s, as though he is trying to make up his mind about something of great importance. He finally inhales deeply, closes his eyes. When he opens them, they lock Dean in place with a look so poignant he can almost feel it piercing through him. It is the same look he gave Dean months before, when he offered to go with Dean to face Amara. To die with him.

“It may be selfish, but that’s why I can’t let you throw your life away, Dean Winchester.” For a moment, all of time stills around them. “I am too much in love with you for that.”

Dean feels his brain spinning, trying to register Cas’s words, his expression. Dean has never seen a face so hopeful, so sincere as Cas's is in this moment. Without meaning to, his right hand slips from Cas’s grasp to cup the side of his face. It is only when he feels the softness of skin, the slight brush of stubble on his palm, that Dean even realizes what he has done. And yet, he has no desire to pull his hand back.

“—Dean?” Cas’s eyes have widened almost imperceptibly, air stalled mid-breath. Dean's thumb strokes Cas’s cheek, mapping the rise and fall of the bone beneath.

“…Cas…”

He brings his other hand to Cas’s face, cradling it gently, and rests his forehead against Castiel’s own, eyes closed. He can feel the warmth of Cas’s breath, the heavy pulse of blood beneath his skin, the tensing of muscles, the fluttering of eyelashes. So many sensations that he’s longed to feel, so many thoughts locked away in the deep recesses of his mind. Everything he’s wanted and told himself he can never have. It’s all here, in this moment, in Dean’s hands, in Cas’s words, in the heat that rises from their bodies, warming the small spaces between them.

“Coulda said something sooner…” he whispers.

“I had assumed you wouldn’t reciprocate…” The warmth of Cas’s breath against his cheek is absolutely intoxicating, melting away the stress and the worry. All the talk of death and fear still hovers in the room; it’s never completely gone. But for now, at least, it has receded, supplanted by the feel of Cas’s left hand resting on the small of his back, his right running deft fingers through the short hairs at the base of his head. He shivers.

“Well, you ain’t gotta worry about that…”

“Good.”

Dean smirks at Cas’s incredible gift for understatement.

“Just…promise me one thing, Cas?” He opens his eyes and pulls back for just a moment to look Cas squarely in the face. Cas returns the look with solemnity.

“Anything, Dean.”

“I won’t ask you to abandon this mission of yours, even if I think it’s _incredibly_ stupid...” Cas opens his mouth to protest, but Dean moves a finger to his lips to silence him. “'Cause it’s your life and your mission and it’s not my place to tell you what to do. And, of course,” he chuckles, “it’s ridiculously flattering.” The two men share a small smile before Dean continues, his face serious once again.

“But promise me you’ll do your best not to die? Either from this oath or from whatever else comes around looking to off us? Promise me you’ll try to live? 'Cause as much as you say you don’t wanna live without me, I sure as hell don’t wanna live without you either.”

Cas’s mouth draws into a firm line.

“Only if you’ll promise too. That you won’t do anything stupid to jeopardize your life again.”

Dean considers this request for a moment, then nods gravely.

“I swear it, Cas. I’ll do my best.”

Castiel moves his right hand gently down the side of Dean’s neck, over his shoulder, and once again aligns his palm with the old scar. Castiel's mark. His eyes flicker from Dean’s face to the brand and then back. Dean understands. He is swearing his own oath. An oath on the mark that first joined them all those years ago.

“I swear, Dean Winchester, that I will try my hardest to live for you.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, and the tension he didn’t realize he has been holding in seems to dissipate instantly. He leans his forehead against Cas’s again and relaxes. They stay that way for several moments.

“...Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?” His eyes flutter open to meet Cas’s, which look gentle, yet somewhat frustrated.

“Are you going to kiss me, or have I grossly misinterpreted our present situation?”

Dean snorts as Cas’s brows draw together in total confusion.

“Would you like that?” he taunts. Now that the tension is gone, Dean can’t help but draw this out just a little.

“Dean, are you mocking me?” Cas huffs, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. Dean can’t tell if Cas is being rhetorical or not, but the quizzical head tilt has given him the perfect angle and he leans into it.

Dean brings his lips to touch Castiel’s. He kisses him slowly, lightly at first, grazing the sensitive skin with his own, reveling in the softness of Cas’s lips, the warmth of them, the sweetness of his taste. It’s not like Dean hasn’t kissed dozens of women, but somehow this is about ten million times more exciting. Then, without really thinking about it, he’s deepening the kiss, pushing Cas back onto the bed, pressing their mouths, their bodies together in a rush of want and need.

It’s not long before the two men are lost in the feeling of tongue and lips and teeth, of fingers tangled in soft hair, of the heat of flushed skin beneath wandering hands. Clothes are discarded, sheets are rumpled. The air is electric with the undulation of bodies, moans of desire, curses and words of adoration filling the space and mingling together. The tension reaches its fever pitch with hoarse cries of “Oh God, Cas…” and “Please, Dean…” and suddenly all is blinding-white stars in their vision as the lovers tumble together into the abyss of pleasure.

~*~

The next morning, Sam pours Mary a cup of coffee and passes it over before grabbing his own mug and filling it to the brim.

“Sweetie, I think you’re going to need to make another pot of that,” Mary says from behind her mug, inhaling the steam of the strong, black liquid. “Maybe two if you want any.”

Sam leans against the counter, mug in one hand, rubbing sleep away with the other. He eyes his mother wearily. She tears open two sugar packets and dumps them into her coffee. Half of the sugar spills into her lap. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, at least they’re not fighting anymore?” he asks her, yawning. She shrugs and takes a long swallow.

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure if having to listen to my adult son’s sex life is really that much better.”  
  
Sam flushes at the comment and hides behind a sip of coffee.  
  
“Maybe I can find some kind of spell to help us forget it all…” he jokes. Mary’s eyes dart to Sam and he would be blind not to notice the glimmer of hope in them. He sighs and stares at his mug.

Suddenly, there is the shuffle of sweatpants and Dean rounds the corner, followed by a similarly attired Castiel. They look totally disheveled, both with the same goofy smile on their faces.

“Mornin’ all,” Dean chirps, reaching behind Sam for the coffee pot. Sam, in his rush to move and avoid having to meet Dean’s gaze, trips over his own feet and goes crashing down in a spectacular sequence that would make the Three Stooges proud.

“Woah, Sammy, are you okay there?” Dean laughs, leaning over Sam’s lanky, prostrate form.

Sam takes a moment to linger on the floor, his face half-bathed in the rapidly cooling puddle of spilled coffee. He considers for a moment that maybe, just maybe, he should have poured himself a whiskey instead.


End file.
